“They’ll be pleased to see you. They thought you were dead,” I say and then realise that may sound a bit harsh. But Nick, with his indomitable Irish sense of humour, finds it amusing.
“Dead? Is that what you told them?” he laughs. “Well, they’ll wake up in the morning and meet a ghost. I’m knackered. I’ll go to the spare room. Send them in when they wake up, will you? Night, Soph.”
He walks upstairs and I go into the kitchen. My heart is beating hard. It was tough seeing him all happy and relaxed. I was rather hoping he might be hurt seeing me with Jean-Claude, or even better, consumed with jealousy, but he doesn’t seem at all bothered. It’s touching that he recognised the dress, though. I wonder if he still longs to take it off me. I guess not.
I make a cup of camomile tea and take it upstairs. I take out my phone and look for my mother’s message.
“Darling,” it reads. “Pack some nice things for a night away in smart hotel. Don’t worry; I’m not coming with you. A car will collect you at 9am.”
I can’t imagine what she has arranged, but I send her a text back saying thank you. I suppose at least I won’t need to stay here with Nick all weekend, which would be strange and strained to say the least. The temptation would be to read HIS messages, why didn’t I think of that before? I could have sent one back to Cécile telling her to bugger off.
A break will be lovely; I am beginning to have a whole new level of respect for single parents. At that point when you’ve had enough and can’t cope and just want to scream or at least say ‘go and ask your father’, you can’t. There really is no one else to fall back on. And the thing about three children is that it is very rare that they’re all happy; there is almost always someone needing something.
I take out a bag and think about what to pack. Something nice, she said. If I were a French woman, I would start with my underwear. I have yet to go shopping as the new slimline-ish Sophie so have to settle for the old stuff. I find some trousers I used to hate because they were so tight they gave me that very attractive camel-toe look, and I could barely sit down in them. I try them on. What joy – no camel. In fact, I can even do a downward dog in them. I will wear them with my pink cashmere jumper and brown leather boots for the journey. But what about the evening and the day after? I look through my wardrobe and conclude that I have absolutely nothing to wear. I could have told myself that without even looking – why did I even waste my time? My clothes were hardly likely to start reproducing overnight, creating new little chic outfits I might like to take with me to a luxury hotel that I don’t even know the location of. The phrase ‘familiarity breeds contempt’ is doubly true when it comes to clothes.
As a last resort I pack some jeans and a couple of jumpers. And obviously that little black dress I can now fit into and have just worn. I have a relaxing bath and then get into bed. How odd it is, to be sleeping under the same roof as Nick again but in a separate room. Thankfully I don’t have a desperate desire to go and pounce on him, so no change there. But it would be nice to just lie and chat to him.
Maybe that was the problem with our marriage; we were too much like pals. Isn’t that what happens after several years of marriage, though? I mean, if you’re not friends, then what else is there? I don’t know a single couple that’s been married for ten years and are still in it for the sex, or at least, the sex with each other.
I am woken by the children at around 6am. Emily and Charlotte are fighting about who can wear a certain pair of light purple leggings, which belong to Emily.
“You promised me last night you’d share them to me if I let you sleep with Johnny,” she yells. Johnny is the name of her furry dog she bought with the £20 that Johnny Fray gave her. “And now you’re saying no. You’re just a big fat liar, liar pants of fire.”
“Pants on fire,” I correct her, “and share with.” I roll over, wishing they didn’t have an inbuilt alarm for 6am that only seems to work at weekends. But for once I have something that will distract them. And that something is on English time, so for him it is only 5am. How very satisfying.
“There’s a surprise for you in the spare bedroom,” I say. “Go and look.”
All three rush into the spare bedroom, anxious to be the first to get there. I hear them say “Where is it?” and then Nick’s voice yelling “Boo” and the shrieks of delight from the three of them.
“Daddy, Daddy,” is all I hear, then Emily starts to weep. I get out of bed, pull on my dressing gown and go and see them. Nick is hugging Emily, who always gets very emotional, and the other two are on the bed.
“Morning,” he says to me. “Are you ready for your trip?”
“Where are you going, Mummy?” says Charlotte. “And why did Daddy sleep in here?”
“He came in late and didn’t want to wake me,” I say. I had already prepared for that question. “And I’m not sure where I’m going, Granny has arranged it all.”
“I know,” says Emily between sobs. “Granny told me. It’s called Some Trapeze and it’s in France.”
*
Three hours later a vast black Mercedes rolls up outside the door to take my very shabby bag and me to Some Trapeze – or St Tropez as it is more commonly known. I wave goodbye to the children and Nick, who are all standing on the steps of Sainte Claire looking gorgeous.
My heart always breaks a little whenever I leave them. But this time it is especially difficult, knowing that when I come back from this mystery jaunt Nick and I will have to tell them our news. I can’t imagine how we begin. I mean, when is a good time to tell your children their parents are getting divorced?
The driver is French and either doesn’t want to talk to me or really does misunderstand everything I say. So all I know about my magical mystery tour is that we are heading to St Tropez. I text my mother to get some more information but she just texts back “Enjoy yourself, it won’t be a surprise if I tell you”. So I decide the best thing is just to relax and enjoy the trip. There are worse ways to travel than in a black Merc with cream leather seats and little buttons that you can press to adjust their position. And there are worse destinations than St Tropez.
We whizz past a sign to Montpellier airport, which makes me think about those early trips Nick and I took here to look for a house. Was I being terribly stupid not to notice there was something wrong? Did I have an idea deep down there was someone else but just not want to face the fact? No, all I knew was that I was getting bored, but I put that down to a combination of a mid-life crisis and several years of marriage. I also thought things would improve between us; I guess I just never thought about how. And now it is all too late. Nick wants a divorce and I am going to St Tropez.
We pass a sign to Aix-en-Provence; that’s where Jean-Claude said he was going. I have his mobile number now, I could text him to say hi, but that might seem a bit desperate. Whatever else happens at our lunch it will be nice to have someone to talk to. Do I want more? Am I ready for more? Maybe not, but it wouldn’t do any harm to try to move on. What other option do I have?
I smile as I remember our walk home. I love the way he takes my hands in his; he has such strong hands. I wonder what his body is like. He is a bit older than me, probably around forty, but he does look in good shape. He told me he used to row at university and that he plays a lot of tennis now, when he isn’t busy running his estates next to our house and in Limoux, a couple of hours away. He knows all there is to know about wine-making; he grew up in a wine-making family and now he runs the business himself.
He could become my wine guru – and maybe something else too? It would be a great way to learn French. And how many chances in life do you get to have a romance with a French aristo? I don’t know for sure that he is one, but I did read somewhere that a de in front of your surname means you are aristocratic. I could become Madame Sophie de Sard. It has a certain ring to it.
I fall asleep daydreaming of a wedding in Boujan’s church and wake up when we pull up to pay the toll at the entrance to St Tropez. So this is the p
lace that made Nick fall in love with France and brought us all here? Or rather the place with the girl on the beach he fell in love with.
We drive down a windy road into the town. It is very pretty; the light seems different here, more translucent. There are palm trees lining the streets, the houses are painted in pastel colours and in the distance the sea is shimmering. But I would still say the landscape around Sainte Claire is more dramatic and beautiful. Thankfully not many other people agree with me, which is why a vineyard down this way costs about five times as much as mine did.
We stop outside a hotel and the driver gets out to open my door. Almost immediately there is a man in uniform ready to take my shabby bag for me.
“Welcome to Byblos,” he says smiling.
“Thank you,” I smile back. But what the hell is Byblos and why am I here?
My driver gives me his mobile number and says he will be here should I need anything else. I try to ask him who sent him but he feigns incomprehension. I just can’t imagine my mother would do all this; she doesn’t have the money for a start. But then who? And how come she is in on it?
I walk to the reception, unsure what to do next. As soon as I get there a young woman wearing trendy jeans and a suede top approaches me.
“Madame Reed?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Welcome to Byblos, it is our pleasure to have you here, I am Chantal, the hotel’s guest relations manager.” She holds out a perfectly manicured hand for me to shake.
“Thank you. Can you please tell me what is going on? I haven’t booked a room here but you seem to know all about me and I certainly can’t afford it and…”
“Madame Reed,” she interrupts me gently. “Please do not worry. I too have no idea who is behind this little gift for you but I can assure you that you will have a lovely time with us and there will be no bill to pay, it is all taken care of.”
I sigh. Mainly with relief at not having to pay the bill. But I was also rather hoping she could tell me what was going on. What if it’s some random psycho? Do I know any random psychos? Oh my God maybe it’s Nick and he’s going to pitch up too? But wouldn’t it just have been easier to ask for my forgiveness at home? And if that is the case who on earth is looking after the children?
“Would you like to hear your itinerary?” smiles Chantal.
“I’d love to,” I say.
“You are staying in the Riviera suite, which is Mick Jagger’s favourite room here,” she begins.
“Oh, I hope he won’t mind,” I joke.
“Oh no, he’s not here,” says Chantal, completely straight-faced. You’ve got to love the French for many things but not for their sense of humour. “I will take you there, where there is a light lunch waiting for you. After lunch a personal shopper from one of St Tropez’s best shops, Riviera Chic, will come and escort you to the store, where you will choose any clothes you like.”
My jaw is starting to drop. Is this woman for real? Where is her fairy godmother’s wand?
“And I don’t have to pay for the clothes?”
“Correct.”
“And I get to keep them?”
Chantal laughs. “Yes, of course. May I continue?”
“Please. don’t let me stop you.”
“After your shopping you will be brought back here to the beauty centre. There you will have any treatments you feel like – for example, a pedicure and manicure, some waxing and a haircut, colour or whatever. You can spend a total of four hours there but then at 6pm you have a Balinese massage booked in your room. After that, I don’t know any more!”
“It sounds too good to be true,” I say. “And you really have no idea…?”
“None,” she interrupts me. “Come on, you need to get going, you have a lot to do.”
Chantal takes me to my room. I say room – it is more like a plush apartment, and I worry I might never find the loo. My little bag is sitting on the luggage rack in the bedroom, looking totally out of place. In my sitting room, which has a view onto the swimming pool outside from a huge window that takes up the whole wall, my lunch is waiting.
I walk over to the window. “You could actually jump from here into the pool,” I say to Chantal. “Has anyone ever done that?”
“Yes, but we don’t encourage it,” she tells me in a rather stern voice. Do I look like the sort of madwoman who would jump into a swimming pool from a window before lunch? Maybe she thinks anyone with a bag as ugly as mine is a potential suicide.
“The personal shopper will be here in forty-five minutes,” she says looking at her clipboard. “Please enjoy your lunch and your afternoon. With your permission I will book you a waxing, eyebrow threading, pedicure and manicure, some highlights and a cut and blow-dry in our salon?”
She’s obviously clocked my unkempt state. I have no idea what eyebrow threading is, but at this point, who am I to argue?
“Yes please, sounds perfect, thank you so much,” I say.
She leaves and I sit down to my light lunch of pumpkin and goat’s cheese salad and warm brown bread rolls, and a glass of white wine. Am I dreaming? This morning I was a normal mother with nothing in particular to differentiate me from every other mother apart from the fact that I have three children and am about to get divorced, and now I am eating lunch in Mick Jagger’s favourite room in St Tropez.
The personal shopper who arrives after half an hour is around sixty and fiercely smart in just about every way. The phrase perfectly turned out doesn’t even begin to describe her. I look like I have just come from a church jumble sale by comparison. She speaks very good, very clipped English. She has a classic little brown bob and perfect skin. She is so thin I could fit her into one leg of my jeans. She is wearing what I can see from the buttons is a Chanel jacket and, I assume, designer jeans. She is a classic example of the 16/60 – a woman who looks 16 years old from the back but 60 from the front. I suppose at that age looking 16 from any angle at all is a good thing, but I find her a little disconcerting.
We leave my room and she leads me through a little passageway, out of the hotel and across a road. I spot the boutique before we even go in. It is one of those shops I would never dare enter because a pair of socks would cost more than my annual clothing budget. But in we go. There are two sales assistants who welcome me smiling. On the background music I recognise Carla Bruni’s soft voice.
“We’ve been so looking forward to this,” says the shorter of the two, a young blonde girl with rosy cheeks and blue eyes. “We love to do makeovers.”
“Let’s start with your underwear,” adds the other one, who is older and darker but probably still only about twenty-five years old. Has she got x-ray vision or can she guess the state of my smalls from my general look?
I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, but with less hair. So who is my Richard Gere?
Isabelle, as the younger one is called, looks me up and down, has a brief discussion with the Chanel-clad personal shopper and scuttles off. Héloise, her sidekick, suggests we look around the store to see what they have and I can tell her what I like the look of.
What don’t I like the look of? Where do I begin? Everything is gorgeous. This is where Madame Chanel comes in handy. She holds up a few items next to me, tells me what colours will suit me and what cut of clothes I should go for. Apparently the cut in the bias dress is a good look for me and the colour green works well with my complexion, for example. She does this brilliant trick of holding a piece of material in front of me and lifting it slowly up my legs to determine what length of skirt or dress will suit me best. My calves are quite chunky, so we settle on just below them.
Meanwhile Isabelle is back with some underwear. I am shown into a changing room and told to try on a bra and matching knickers (of course) made out of lace and satin. The colour is a gloriously rich deep purple, like something out of the film Moulin Rouge. I go into the changing room and undress. My own underwear seems like an extremely poor relation next to this ensemble even though I picked my least-faded
set.
I put on the bra and knickers then look at myself in the mirror. Suddenly I understand why women spend fortunes on underwear. I am a different woman. The bra makes my mummy breasts look like sex-goddess breasts and the knickers have an amazing flattening effect on my stomach. I look at myself. For the first time in several years I feel really sexy.
“This light is for your husband,” says Isabelle popping her head into the changing room. “And this,” she says switching on another light that changes the ambiance into a diffused, rather more muted one, “is for your lover”. These Frenchies; they think of everything.
“So this size is good for you,” says Madame Chanel. “Try another three sets, you will need them.”
“Need them for what?” I ask. Am I being sold into white-trade slavery? Aren’t I a little old for that?
“Life,” says Madame Chanel with a Gallic shrug.
Next come the clothes; two pairs of slim-fit cotton trousers, one in black, the other white, that make my legs look longer than I’ve ever seen, with cashmere jumpers to go with them, again black and white – all very Audrey Hepburn. These outfits are completed with a pair of black ballet pumps and a small black handbag. Then Madame Chanel gets me to try on a dress that I would never have picked out for myself but that looks incredible. It is made of thick white crinkle-effect cotton with silver lace stitching around the neck in a large V, joining more silver stitching that goes all the way to the stomach, creating a very sexy look. The dress is ankle-length and wide. The sleeves are wide too; the whole effect resembles a snow-angel. The edges are all lined with the thick silver stitching.
It’s quite see-through and yet extremely classy. Madame Chanel suggests some flesh-coloured underwear to go underneath it and some white ballet pumps, which will of course also go with my other outfits. She then insists I try on a couple of skirts and shirts, as well as the most incredible pink cashmere cardigan that is almost the length of a coat but as light as a scarf.
Love in a Warm Climate Page 17